And In One Moment
by Chaplin Hatlow
Summary: Sometimes all it takes is one bad decision to undo years of good ones. When budget cuts mean endangering the BAU, Aaron Hotchner finally snaps. (WIP, some sweary bits because adults talk that way.)
1. Chapter 1

Sunlight glinted off the black barrel of the Glock as it lay on the polished oak desk, his agency ID and badge in the black leather case alongside.

 _I must have cleaned that gun about a million times. Every night, like clockwork._ Aaron Hotchner shifted his weight imperceptibly where he stood on the Berber carpeting and recalled, in a flash, his first David Rossi lesson in proper gun maintenance.

" _Fifty-four steps, including dis-assembly, reassembly and safety check. Twice. Always two safety checks."_

" _Who has time for that?" Hotchner had asked, shrugging incredulously._

 _David Rossi had fixed him with a disconcerting glare and pointed an almost accusing finger in Hotchner's rather surprised face._

" _You do, Aaron. You always have time for two safety checks." Rossi had leaned in slightly, his face inches away from Hotchner's, intent on stressing the importance of gun safety to his slightly-rattled agent. "I ever find out you're shirking weapon safety, I'm taking your gun and throwing it into the river. Then I will throw you into the river. Should I ever change my mind and require you to lick this gun clean instead, that is precisely what I expect you to do. Got it?"_

 _Hotchner got it, no question. Thus followed half a lifetime of fifty-four step gun maintenance. Never another question._

Hailey had once jokingly (he hoped) accused him of huffing bore solvent for a cheap high. But she laughed; she thought it was cute, his meticulous attention to detail. He had the procedure down to about twenty-eight minutes now, but his first attempts had been upwards of an hour and a quarter.

 _Twenty-eight minutes? Why do I know that? My god, I'm turning into Spencer Reid_. _Time flies when you're having fun. Time flies when you're cleaning guns. Time flies when..._

He squinted slightly, peering through the dust motes dancing around the gun, a shaft of sunlight highlighting the weapon he had coddled and babied which, in return, had saved his life more times than he cared to count.

 _What is it? What does this remind me of?_

An annoyingly indistinguishable noise droned in the background.

The monotonous tone thudded on, increasing in volume. He felt like he probably should be listening to what the noise meant. But the dancing dust mesmerized him, and the thing, the image that he almost could see stayed just out of reach in his memory.

 _Holy light, holy light..._

"Hotchner? Hotchner? Are you listening?" A loud, angry voice broke into his reverie, startling him so that he jumped slightly.

Aaron Hotchner dragged his eyes up from the desktop, noting the smart grey suit in front of him.

 _Click. I know._

Hotchner half smiled.

 _Jesus sky. Sean used to call it that._

Hotchner's eyes were drawn back to the shaft of sunlight playing across the Glock.

 _When Sean was little, his pediatrician had a set of Bible Story books in the waiting room. Inside the front cover was a drawing of Jesus illuminated by a shaft of sunlight. Sean always called it the "Jesus sky"._

 _Does that mean my gun is Jesus?_

 _That's weird..._

The smart grey suit scowled. "Hotchner, are you even following what I said? There is absolutely zero tolerance for physical violence in the workplace. You have crossed a line, and there is no going back. You have been officially dismissed. You will be escorted from the building. Your personal belongings will be sent on, along with necessary documents. Do not return to your office. You will leave immediately and do not speak to anyone on your way out."

Hotchner paused, blinking the Jesus Sky memory away, then looked up sharply, meeting the Grey Suit's startled eyes. One last time, he snapped into BAU Unit Chief mode.

"I fully understand the implications of my actions, sir. While I do not agree with the severity of your decisions, I will abide by them. I had hoped to serve this agency and eventually end my career with the BAU, and I suppose I have. It was not the intent that I had when I walked in the door this morning, but I have to stand by my own beliefs as well as recognize and adhere to the Bureau's requests." He paused, never breaking eye contact, then continued.

"I hope the Agency is comfortable with this decision, despite their haste to rush to judgment." He held the Grey Suit in a steely gaze for a count of three, then looked down at the Glock again.

The ray of sun had shifted ever so slightly, and it no longer held magic. What he saw was just a gun on a desk. His gun. Well, an agency gun. It wasn't his any more.

He stood, eyes on the gun, still except for the nervous habit he had developed in childhood. Rubbing his left thumb and forefinger together, he tried to gather his thoughts, his wits, his dignity for his exit.

 _The Last Waltz._

 _Dead Man Walking._

 _Shut up, Aaron. This is serious._

He bit his lower lip, digging teeth into flesh just a bit too hard. He became aware of his fingers moving and clenched his fists, tightly, then realized that was what had him in trouble. Deep trouble. Over his head trouble. Out of a job trouble.

 _Well, fuck. This must be shock. It has to be._

He ran his tongue experimentally over his very dry lips.

Y _ep. Numb. I'm in shock. Or maybe I'm having a heart attack. Well... fuck. Okay. No use dropping dead in here._

And with that, Aaron Hotchner, accompanied by two security guards, left the building.


	2. In One Moment Ch 2

Two security officers had flanked now former-SSA Aaron Hotchner as he walked toward the front doors of the Federal Building. The duo had whispered hurriedly outside closed Director's door, waiting to escort the Unit Chief to his car.

" _He didn't even really hit the other guy. I saw the whole thing..."_ The ginger-haired officer blew out a sigh. _"Railroading him, is what it is. Everybody has heard that the agency is trying to retire their older agents, and the ones that don't accept, well..."_ and Ginger drew a murderous finger across his own throat.

When the door silently swung open, the security team fell into an almost reverent hush.

 _Aaron Hotchner is like a fucking god here,_ thought the security team in unison. _  
_

But Aaron Hotchner felt like a criminal.

 _They caught me_ , he wanted to shout. _I've been stealing Post-It notes for years!_ He bit back what he assumed was a rather hysterical laugh.

 _It could be worse. They could have arrested me._ His chest clenched painfully and his hand to jerked upward in reflex, before he forced it back down tensely to his side. _  
_

 _Oh shut up, it could not be worse. It could not possibly be any fucking worse, you moron._ He dropped his gaze slightly and flinched almost imperceptibly. The blow did not come. He blinked and chewed his lip as he forced himself to keep a steady, brisk but unhurried pace. _  
_

The officers flanked their charge as they walked to the elevator, through the silent ride down and toward the glass doors of the Federal Building. Hotchner was acutely aware of his footsteps echoing as he walked across the Department of Justice seal inlaid in the polished granite flooring, and he felt his stomach clench violently as the finality of what had happened registered in his brain. Keeping his eyes forward, he swallowed hard, clenching his jaw to keep the coffee churning in his otherwise empty stomach precisely where it was.

Somehow, he managed to present his usual calm, collected image while a violent storm surged inside. He almost always could; he had years and years of practice in suppressing emotions. They had reached the parking garage, and all that was left was for Hotchner to make it to his Audi sedan and drive away into the sunset. The manners so deeply ingrained in him since childhood required that he turn and shake the hands of his accompanying security team before he left, thanking them with a terse nod. The security officers had been immensely grateful there hadn't been a scene. Aaron Hotchner's professional reputation was legend, but the temper, it was most certainly lurking just beneath the surface.

They had gripped his proffered hand in turns, shaking firmly and sincerely. "Sorry sir, this seems so wrong."

And Hotchner had smiled tightly and turned curtly on his heel, striding confidently into the parking garage.

But that morning's incident replayed in his head in fits and jerks and snippets of almost-shouting:

 _Budget cuts... already losing one team entirely... just have to make time... well, make it work, we're all tired, that's just how it has to be._

No one was more aware of the budgetary crunch than the BAU Unit Chief, but being told that their caseload was about to double, if not triple, was beyond acceptable. They were overworked as it was, holidays and days off and vacations had been canceled and shuffled so many times that Reid had recently had his Easter holiday three weeks ago in July... rescheduled from Easter 2015. And now, with Morgan leaving, they were already down an agent, with no leeway in the already-reduced budget to replace him.

The team had returned from back to back cases in Salt Lake City and Billings, Montana, landing at three that morning. Hotchner had been halfway to his car when his phone rang, requesting that he assemble the team at nine a.m. for a case assignment in Wyoming. Hotchner had been waiting outside the Director's door since half past seven, hoping to plead his case for just a day or so to please let his team catch their breath before shoving them back onto a plane. He hadn't eaten since the previous day's breakfast, nor had he slept in more than 48 hours.

Inside the office, financial axes were falling, manpower was being reduced and dollar signs were winning a war over safety and security. At eight thirty, suits came spilling out, clutching folders and tablets and coffee cups. Team Finance looked smug and confident. Team HR was clearly the loser.

Hotchner's request to the Director for a brief reprieve for his team was met with a wave of dismissal and excuses. But the what would come to be known as the final nail in his career coffin was the smirking Bureau accounting lackey, who attempted to shoulder past him. "Yeah, too bad, suck it up, buddy," the lackey had almost laughed. As if the whole thing was a fucking enormous joke.

And before Hotchner even had time to think, his right hand shot out, shoving the accountant's shoulder, with a furious "Why don't _you_ suck it, buddy?" echoing down the hallway. The lackey had stumbled backward, completely NHL-dive overselling the push. Hands grabbed Hotchner, pulling him away from the scene, and it was all a blur from there.

And now it was done. A moment of anger, exhaustion and concern for his team bubbling up into one very-poorly handled situation that, in an instant, completely negated a very stellar career.

.

Hotchner sat behind the wheel of his sedan, eyes closed. He made it to the parking garage, self-control intact. He had abided by the agency demands that he not return to his office. He had not spoken to anyone, just a brief nod to the front desk staff as he left.

But now, insulated from the outside world with steel and upholstery and glass, he needed to review. Regroup. Figure out his next move.

 _And remember how to breathe, for fuck's sake._

His chest tightened alarmingly, and he tried to take a deep breath. He felt like he was choking, like an invisible noose had tightened around his neck.

" _You have been judged, Aaron Hotchner, and found guilty. You will be hanged by the neck until..."_

 _Shut up and take a goddamned breath, you idiot. You've been doing it all your life. It's not hard._

A gasping wheeze, and a tiny precious morsel of air worked it's way down. The darkening edges on the world started to lighten.

 _Breathe. Just take a breath. Again._

But the deep, cleansing, calming breath would not come. His chest hurt. He tried to inhale, but just the smallest wheeze of air made it inside.

 _Damn it. Not now. Not again. Breathe._ A whistling trickle, then the pressure clamped down again.

He fumbled for his phone and punched, rather than tapped, the screen.

The voice on the other end snapped. "Hotch, where the hell are you? We're set in the..."

'Um, Dave..." Hotch bit his lip, hard, and tried the deep breath again. No dice. Beads of sweat began to creep down his neck. He felt uncomfortably hot and cold, at the same time. "Um, Dave... I'm in... my car. In the garage. Um... I can't... um... breathe... I'm having... maybe... a panic attack?"

"Three minutes, kiddo. Hang tight."

And four stories up in the federal building. Dave Rossi had sprinted from the conference room, leaving the remainder of the BAU team sitting open-mouthed. He would explain later.


	3. Chapter 3

"Three minutes, kiddo. Hang tight."

Four stories up in the federal building. Dave Rossi had sprinted from the conference room, leaving the remainder of the BAU team sitting open-mouthed. He would explain later.

 _-Just take a breath, Aaron... just take a breath-_

And four stories down in the parking garage of the federal building, Aaron Hotchner sat in his Audi sedan, in his assigned parking space, and tried to breathe.

 _-Just take a breath, Aaron... just take a breath-_

These panic episodes had been few and far between, fewer and further as Hotchner grew older and learned to compartmentalize his fear and anger. Emotions have been the monster under the bed all his life, the thing lurking and waiting for a moment of weakness to leap out and attack, to make him feel, really feel, the intensity of everything he had refused to process.

Dave Rossi was the only person who knew about the monster under the bed. He had witnessed the monster before, and Hotchner desperately hoped that Dave could drive it back under the bed and make it stay there for good.

But Hotchner felt the panic bubble up again. He winced and bit down, hard, on his lip.

 _Failure Number One? Being born._

It had been an impossible burden, being the child who was meant to save his parents' marriage, but ended up driving them further apart. One angry and hurtful, one distant and withdrawn, young Aaron learned early on to shut up, keep his head down and do as he was told.

" _You made it worse. This is your fault. YOUR fault!"_

 __Hotchner flinched and involuntarily jerked his hand up to cover his face.

 _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I won't do it any more, please don't be mad..._

He blinked the memory away, harsh words and half-phrases skittering through his mind. Nothing made sense, really, nothing cohesive. He just knew that he was an abject failure, that everything that was wrong was directly his own fault, and that he no hope whatsoever of … anything.

 _Can't you do anything right?_

Hotch leaned his head against the seat back, eyes squeezed shut. The stillness inside the car was stifling but he still felt as if ice was seeping from his pores. He longed to roll the windows down, but the thought of the effort required was almost too defeating.

 _I'd have to turn the engine on... where are my keys?_ He spotted them sitting on the passenger seat and fumbled for them, knocking the car keys into the floorboard. They seemed a million miles away.

 _Focus, focus. Calm down...Find a center._

 _-Just take a breath, Aaron... just take a breath-_

 _I can't... I can't do this..._

 _Find something_... _something_...

He concentrated on his hands, spreading them out on the steering wheel, focusing on the slightly-too-short nails (once a nail-biter, always a nail-biter), strong, capable hands. Shaking-ever-so-slightly hands. They felt so cold, _he_ felt so cold on the inside, despite the August heat.

He clenched his fists, unclenched and then scrubbed both hands over his eyes. He was surprised to find his palms damp, he hoped with sweat, but he was so cold, and that little trickle of air didn't even seem like it was getting into his lungs at all. He coughed and gasped, the sudden tiny rush of oxygen making little black spots dance in front of his eyes. He knew that it wasn't sweat but tears creeping down his cheeks, and he was desperately afraid that he was going to suffocate, crying and alone, in the FBI parking garage.

 _I can't breathe. I'm going to die in my car. God, what an idiot._

He blew out a hesitant, shallow breath, then tried breathing in through his nose. A shaky count of five.

 _One-two-three-four-five_ , drawing oxygen into his lungs.

 _It hurts, I can't... god, why am I so stupid? Why can't I just take a goddamned breath like a normal person?_ He held the breath for a count of five.

 _Dave is on his way. Dave is coming._ He blew the air out slowly, one-two-three-four-five, hands clenched at ten and two on the steering wheel.

The self-doubt voice came back, and it was strong. It was mean, and it wanted to hurt.

 _Dave can't fix this, stupid. You got fired. You're stupid and you're going to die right here, and they'll find your body and be glad you're gone._ His lungs tightened, refusing to let any but the smallest gasps of air intrude.

 _Jack will be better off without you anyway. Loser. You're a loser, Aaron. You've always been a loser. You can't do anything right._

"No, that's not true... I was just t-trying to do the right th-thing!" Hotch gasped out, knowing that he was arguing aloud with a voice in his head, but he didn't care.

 _Stop stuttering, goddamn it! What are you, some fucking retard?_

"I just wanted them to stop. I just wanted to k-keep everyone safe. I just wanted... I j-j-just wanted... please d-d-don't..."

Hotch startled as a hand gripped his right shoulder.

"Hey, hey... calm down, okay?" Dave Rossi knelt in the passenger seat, keeping his left hand on Hotchner's shoulder, as he reached across and grabbed Hotch's wrist.

"Let's get out and take a walk, just me and you." He gently tugged at Hotch's wrist. "Let go, okay? Just let go, and we'll go take a walk, and you can tell me what's goin' on, okay?" He noted the shallow breathing, the ashy skin tone.

 _Has Hotch always been this pale?_ He moved his hand from Hotch's wrist to his fingers. Ice cold.

Hotch still sat, eyes squeezed shut, shaking his head back and forth.

"No, D-Dave. I c-c-can't. I can't... I'm just... I c-c-an't ... D-Dave..." Hotch started trembling, tears streaming in earnest down his face. "D-Dave, I d-did something really... b-bad..."

Dave tugged Hotch's right hand free of the steering wheel and placed it on his own chest.

"Okay, then's let's breathe, just the two of us, right? I breathe in, and you breathe in too, okay?" He took a deep breath."You feel that? Come on, kiddo. You do it too, okay?" He exhaled and took another slow deep breath, eyes intent on Hotch's chest.

"That's it. Right now, that's all we gotta do, okay?" He saw Hotch's chest expand slowly, heard the wheeze of air as it entered his lungs.

"Shh, relax, now hold onto that breath... and then let it out real slow." He blew out a slow stream of air, while Hotch followed suit.

"Great work. Now let's do it again, okay? Innnnnn..." easier breath this time, pause, exhale. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. In, hold, out.

After three or four minutes of controlled breathing, Hotchner had loosened his left-handed death grip on the steering wheel. A flush of color was returning to his cheeks. He glanced quickly at Rossi, his eyes darting away again to rest on the windshield. Ashamed. Embarrassed. He swiped his arm over his face quickly, not caring that he had a rather expensive handkerchief for that very purpose. He got fired, he cried like a baby, and the country's most renowned criminologist had to sit and hold his hand until he got his shit together. He didn't know what to say. Well, he didn't know how to _start_ , more to the point.

"Um..." Hotch chewed on his lip briefly,trying to get control of... anything, at this point. "God, I'm so sorry, Dave..."

"Shut up and get out of the car, Aaron." Dave winced as he straightened up. He had been kneeling in the passenger seat since he got in Hotchner's car. "I'm gonna die of a back spasm here." He crawled out of the seat and pressed his hands to his lower back. "Oh my god, I swear I gotta start Pilates or somethin'."

Hotchner, scrambled out as well, placing a hand on the side of the car. He felt a little dizzy, then a lot dizzy. More than a little bit achy. More than a lot nauseous. He hated the panic attacks; tomorrow he would feel as if he had been hit by a truck. But that was tomorrow. Today was just starting.

It was barely ten a.m.

And he had already been fired.

Dave Rossi eased himself onto the hood of Hotch's sedan, hands on knees, watching him expectantly.

"I think we need to have a talk, Aaron," Rossi said, patting the hood beside him. Wincing, Hotchner joined his mentor.

"Yeah Dave, yeah... we do."


End file.
